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Beautiful, Bad Broadway 


BY 

ROLAND BURKE HENNESSY, 

Author of “ The Pursuit of Virtue,** 

“ Tales of the Heart** &*c. 


ILLUSTRATID BY 

GEORGE GRANBY. 


OaxoAOO* IiA., 
WXU R08SITBR, 




4 


\V 





THE LIBRARY OF 

CONGRESS, 

Two CoPiei* RECtIVEO 

OCT. 8 1901 

Copyright entry 

CLASS CC XXo- 

'copy Q. 


OOPTRtOHT, MOMT« 

BY WlT4l^ ROSSITBR. 

■NOUMH OOrTBXOHT SKOURKZN 


DEDICATION. 


Co Broa^wa^: 

CClje street of sunny bay anb briyl^test niytit^ 
IDtiere lips may smile, or eyes look sab; 
IDl^ere joy is tjeany, or moe is ligl|t, 

’ Cis beautiful — anb bab 
^roabmay. 











CONTENTS : 


In Broadway Rush, - 

Far from the Glitter, 

A Tragedy of Broadway, - - 

The Story of Chrissie Latelle, - 
Jack Perry, Artist, - - - 

Tom Lightly to the Front, 

A Long Branch Angel, 

The Experience of Algernon de Wilt, - 
Why Helen Van Buskirk went on the Stage, 
Lilies of the Valley, 

How She Married Willie in Spite of Himself, 
When Bobbie Buys the Rings, 

In Which Garters are Trumps, 

When a Young Man's Virtuous, 

As Handsome as a God, 

The Moon and an Automobile, 

Is Broadway Wicked? 


9 

15 

19 

23 

33 

37 

43 

51 

59 

73 

8i 

93 

97 

103 

III 

123 

129 


vii 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS: 


FACE. 

Annie Simmons was one of the brisk minor features 

of ‘<The Belle of Bohemia/^ - - - 25 

‘^She calls herself an actress while Broadway calls 

her a soubrette/’ - - - - 29 

‘‘There, tighten the band a little more; and are you 

sure those stockings donT wrinkle ? - - 39 

“It was delicious and teasing to gaze at her,’^ - 45 

“Well, what do you think of me?'^ she asked, - 53 

“She had a style all her own — a cleverness cer- 
tainly not a product of Binghamton,'^ - 67 

“In five minutes more Maesy Middleton was mak- 
ing the hit of her life," - - - 87 f 

“I say you shall, you shall," said she, passionately, 107 


viii 




T TE. Robert Fulton, hungry! How absurd 
^ it seemed, and yet there was no denying 
it; that gnawing within could not be mistaken. 

He gazed at his clothes; all modish, but hollow 
mockeries, each fine piece of apparel a relic of 
those other days when but to wish was to have. 

And today! 

Aye, and' yesterday and to-morrow and the 
day after — all were the same. 

Told by a father that he would be wealthy 
always; then thrown on the world without a 
moment’s warning by executors that found the 
dead man’s goods not enough for his creditors; 
almost ignored by his friends, and receiving 


10 — 


scant attention by the tradesmen who had read 
the newspapers, what could he do? Work? 
Oh, yes ; he would try. But how everyone 
laughed at his white hands and fine clothes and 
fine manners. And so he waited and watched, 
and finally he was left with only his good clothes 
and — hunger. 

What a beautiful day it was! Fifth Avenue 
was alive with men no better dressed than 
Robert Fulton, and with women whose fluffy 
gowns made dainty settings for faces fair. From 
the window of the Union Club peered two men 
who knew him well. Many a time he had taken 
their I. O. U’s. They nodded; merely nodded, 
as if they were ashamed to do less — or more. 
In front of Maillard’s a carriage stopped as he 
passed. From it emerged a tall, handsome 
girl with a queenly air and calculating eyes. 
They were eyes that seldom made a mistake. 
They shone from the brain — not from the 
heart. 

As she stepped out of the brougham she 
caught sight of Fulton. There was just the 
faintest addition of color to her cheeks. Then 
there was an almost imperceptible raising of her 
eyebrows and a studiously cold bow of the head 
as she went into the shop. 

Fulton stood transfixed for a moment. She 


had bowed to him quite as if he were the most 
casual acquaintance. And this was the woman 
who had told him only a few months before 
that she loved him and could not live without 
him. 

Great God! Was gold so potent that its yel- 
low changed the world and made cowards of 
men and heartless stone of women? 

Adele, his Adele! And she had scarcely 
bowed. With burning cheeks and throbbing 
brain he walked across Madison Square, up past 
old Delmonico’s, and for a moment stood op- 
posite the Brunswick, now deserted and dis- 
mantled. How like it was to himself. Once it 
was gay — so had he been. Now it was dark and 
dismal and neglected — so was he. 

He stopped for a moment to consider. Surely 
he had made a mistake. Surely she had not 
been so cruel. 

He would go back again and call her by name 
and ask her if she thought him a criminal because 
he was poor. 

Yes; he would go to her. 

Down Fifth Avenue again he walked in a 
blind sort of way. People he passed wondered 
at his haggard look and sunken eyes. Again 
opposite Maillard’s he waited for her to appear. 
He had not long to stay. Soon the door 


12 


opened and Adele, chatting and laughing with 
a girl friend, came out. 

Fulton went forward. She saw him and, 
seemingly desirous of not letting her companion 
see that she knew this man with the strange 
look in his face, passed out to her carriage and 
comfortably ensconced herself behind the plate 
glass of the window. 

She had cut him — cut him to the heart with a 
stab that made him stagger as if intoxicated. 

The driver whipped up his horses and started 
off in the direction of Twenty-third street. The 
noise of the hoofs seemed to awaken Fulton to 
new life. 

He had humiliated himself for her, and she 
had ignored him in her high-bred way, as if he 
were the veriest stranger and had never been a 
part of her life; yet there was more of sorrow 
than resentment in his heart. A soft mist came 
over his eyes, and he groped blindly, wildly. 
He was going somewhere, anywhere, he cared 
not. In the maze of cabs and trucks that filled 
the square he made his way. Pedestrians no- 
ticed the disheveled, wild-eyed creature with the 
hunted look, but he did not stop. Straight on 
he went. 

There was a loud clanging of the discordant 
gong, a wild shout from the motorman and 


13 — 


screams from the bystanders; then a horrible 

crunching, a muffled cry, and — death. 

* * * * * * 

The papers announced with due solemnity the 
next morning that an unknown man had been 
run over and killed by a Broadway car. 


— 14 — 


FAR FROM THE GLITTER. 



''T^HE lights had just gone out. The United 
States camp at Manila was ready to go to 
sleep — perhaps to dream of glorious triumphs, 
or of the return home with heads erect and the 
knowledge that the best of each had been given 
to a grateful country. I was tired. It had been 
tramp, tramp, tramp all day in a broiling sun — 
a sun that seemed to scorch the brain and make 
the very earth steam and bake. With the night 
came a cooler air, and a longing came over all 
of us for a shade that would be continuous and 
all-prevailing. I had just put out our light and 
the other boys were preparing to stretch out in 
the most comfortable position they could devise, 
when from afar off there came the tinkle of 


— i6 — 


a banjo — vague and indefinite at first, and 
then clearer and more sharply defined, and 
finally each note was as distinct as the tick of 
a clock. 

We could hear now that someone was thrum- 
ming a few accompaniment bars. In a strong, 
rich, uncouth voice he sang: 

Down in de cornfield, 

Hear dat mournful sound! 

All de darkies am a weeping, 

Massa’s in de cold, cold ground. 

As he finished the last line a thousand hands, 
regardless of military discipline, clapped a quick 
tattoo, and then there was silence again. 

“Say, fellers,” said big Corporal Densmore, 
of Hudson street. New York, “that kinder 
makes a chap lonely, don’t it ? Gee ! I wish we 
could get at them Dagoes to-morrow and get it 
over with in a hurry.” 

“I didn’t think you was as soft as that, corp, ” 
said Private Reddy, “When y’ get up in the 
mornin’ we’ll pick y some buttercups and give y’ 
a milk bath,” and his laugh sounded teasingly in 
the darkness. 

“Shut up, Reddy, or I’ll hammer you,” said 
the corporal, and as he was six feet tall and in 
earnest, Reddy followed his advice. 

Just then the banjo sounded once more, and 


17 — 


this time he played “The Old Folks at Home.” 
And to his rhythmic picking of the strings he 
sang those simple rugged lines: 

’Way down upon the Suwanee River, 

Far, far away, 

There’s where my heart is turning ever. 
There’s where the old folks stay. 

All this world is sad and dreary 
Everywhere I roam. 

Oh, darkies, how my heart grows weary, 
Far from the old folks at home ! 

And somehow, I could only think of Broadway 
and my folks, and my street with its noisy cars, 
and jolly crowds and everything else that makes 
B roadway — B road way . 

As the last line died away in a soft cadence 
Private Reddy sat up in his corner, and when the 
song had lost itself in the cool night air he broke 
the stillness first by coughing vigorously and 
then in a voice not so remarkably clear, said ; 

“Say, corp. I’m just as soft as you are, and I 
ain’t ashamed of it, neither.” 

“All right, Reddy, and I didn’t meant it when 
I said I’d lick you, so we’re square.” 

‘ ‘ Good night, corp. ” 

‘ ‘ Good night, Reddy. ” 

And then we all went to sleep. 


— i8 — 


A TRAGEDY OF BROADWAY. 



O HANLEY’S was ablaze. The theatre crowds 
were pouring in, the tables were full, and 
everything was bustle and electric lights. 

At a table in the rear of the room sat a man 
and a woman. She was young, very, a trifle 
loud in style, perhaps, but not bedizened like 
some of the others. She was nervous. She 
showed that by the way in which she toyed with 
her fork. The man was good-looking, too, but 
dissipated. 

‘ ‘ Then this is the last night you can see me. 
We must part forever,” and she looked at him 
in a half-pleading, half-defiant way. 

The man laughed a little sharp, hard laugh. 
“You talk like a school girl,” he said. “I 
thought you would be sensible about it." 


20 — . 



The woman’s eyes flashed. 

“Sensible,” and her lip curled. “Did you 
ask me to be sensible when I gave up home, 
family, everything to be — well, to be what I 
am ? ” 

“But, my dear girl,” said he, “you must 
surely have guessed that this would come. Have 
I not been kind to you ? Have I not given you 
everything that money could buy ? ” This last 
with a waive of the hand that seemed to dismiss 
the whole subject. 

She nodded her head wearily. 

“Yes, you have given me all that, — and with 
it a stone for a heart.” Then, woman-like, she 
softened and one great hot tear splashed on her 
hand. She looked at him through her long 
black lashes, and what she saw did not reassure 
her. His face was still handsome, still dissi- 
pated, still calm. She would have said, “Jack, 
don’t cast me aside,” but the words froze on 
her lips. 

Presently they arose. She mechanically fol- 
lowed him to the door and when they were on 
the sidewalk he helped her into a cab. Then, 
with his hand on the door, he said, “We under- 
stand each other, Kate. I knew you would be 
sensible over it. Forget everything, there’s a 
good girl, Send to me if you need anything. 


Goodbye,” and he lifted his hat and walked 
away. 

‘ ‘ Forget, ” and she sank back on the cushion, 
“Forget — forget in a minute after three years 
of heaven.” 

And it seemed as if her heart were breaking. 

‘ ‘ Where shall I drive you, miss ? " asked the 
cabman. 

‘ ‘ Oh, nowhere, anywhere, ” she answered, 

‘ ‘ drive me through the Park. But first drive 

me to a drug store. ” 

* * * « 

And when an hour later the cab drove up to 
the Armory and the cabman told the sergeant 
at the desk of receiving no reply to inquiries 
and finding a cold, inert body stretched out in 
the hansom, then the sergeant merely shook his 
head and said, “Another poor devil.” 

And at that very moment a man with a hand- 
some, dissipated face was telling his wife that he 
had never loved any woman but her. 

And the man was right. 



22 


THE STORY OF CHRISSIE LATELLE. 




‘/The ' 


OHE had come to New York from an up the 
^ State town when she was barely sixteen. 
Her name was Annie Simmons, and her chief 
characteristic was the amiable and careless flip- 
pancy with which she viewed all things. She 
could not have been serious under any circum- 
stances. Her snub nose and saucy air would 
have prevented that. 

First she went to work in a Sixth Avenue 
store. She was not especially capable in any 
v/ay, and her salary was commensurate with her 
ability. She managed to make enough to keep 
body and soul together. She lived at a cheap 
boarding house on Bank Street, and she wrote 
home religiously twice a week, and told the old 
folks many surprising things about the big city. 


— 24 ~ 



^ ' J. :- 






ANNIE SIMMONS WAS ONE OF THE BRISK MINOR FEATURES OF 
“THE BELLE OF BOHEMIA." 









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When she was seventeen she was still flippant 
and still saucy. She had not been sufficiently 
attentive to business to attract the attention of 
the head of her department. She worked simply 
because she must live, and did not bother herself 
about details. 

One morning she found a copy of “The 
Dramatic Mirror” in a car. She glanced 
through it with some interest, as it was different 
from any paper she had ever seen before. Then 
her eye rested on this advertisement: 

WANTED — Ten shapely and pretty young girls 
for a new production. Apply stage door Casino, 
between lo and ii Tuesday. 

The stage! It was the one ambition of her 
life. She had a good form — that she knew — for 
the floor-walker had told her so more than 
once — and she wasn’t quite so sure that she was 
ugly. She was at the Casino on time. So 
were fifty others. The manager saw that Annie 
Simmons was inexperienced, but he also saw 
that snub nose and that pert air, which even the 
dry goods counter had not squelched. Miss 
Simmons was engaged at eighteen dollars a 
week, and told to report for rehearsal the next 
day. She immediately went down to the cashier 
of the hairpin emporium, where she had been 
working, and handed in her resignation. She 


— 27 — 


went to her hall bedroom to think over the good 
fortune which had placed an eighteen dollar a 
week salary within her eight dollar a week grasp. 

Then she sat down and wrote home. 

* « « « 

The manager had not made a mistake. Annie 
Simmons was one of the brisk minor features of 
“The Belle of Bohemia,” the new burlesque. 
She appeared on the programme as one of the 
Broadway Brigade of Breezy Beauties, and her 
name was spelled Chrissie Latelle. 

Miss Latelle began to grow a little careless 
about writing home. About one letter in two 
weeks was her average. Her mornings, up to 
eleven or twelve o’clock, were spent in bed — a 
bed sometimes not reached until long after the 
lights had been put out at most of the night 
restaurants. For she had scarcely taken off her 
makeup on the opening night, ere she received 
some flowers and a note, and — well, she went 
to dinner, anyway, and went the next night, 
too, and soon she grew so popular around Shan- 
ley’s and Martin’s and the Metropole that she 
rarely entered without bowing to some one she 

knew at the other tables. 

* * * * 

Miss Latelle now lives in a flat in West 
Thirty-eighth Street, and her companion is one 


— 28 — 



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of the very pretty and equally careless members 
of the same company. She calls herself an 
actress, while Broadway calls her a soubrette. 
She still wears tights and a snub nose, and is 
often seen riding through Herald Square with 
her body far out of a hansom cab, and bowing 
right and left to acquaintances. Her hair, in- 
stead of being brown, is a sunset red, and there 
are too many rings on her fingers. 

But she smiles and looks happy. 

* * * * 

Chrissie Latelle never writes to the Simmons 
family any more. 


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JACK PERRY, ARTIST. 



J ACK PERRY was an artist — not a very good 
one, to be sure^ but he had a studio and was 
poorer than the devil. 

One day Celeste came to him. She had long 
hair, glorious eyes and the fine air of a grand 
dame. 

“ Sit for me, mademoiselle,” said Jack, “and 
I’ll paint a great picture. I’ll sell it and give you 
half, ” and he tried to forget that he hadn’t eaten 
that day. 

Celeste laughed. 

“You Americaine artists are so poor,” she 
said. “ I cannot pose if you cannot pay me big 
price.” Celeste knew her value as a model, 
j ack shrugged his shoulders. 


— 34 — 


“Very well, mademoiselle,” he said. “Good 
day.” Then a sudden impulse told him to say, 
“It is just as well, any way. I’m afraid I 
couldn’t do you justice on an empty stomach. ” 

Celeste started. 

“Do you mean you are hungry?” she asked. 

“ Yes,” he said, quite simply, “very hungry. 
Good day, mademoiselle.”- 

“Mon Dieu!” — and she went over to him and 
placed her small hand on his shoulder. “Hun- 
gry! Oh, monsieur le artist, this is awful, and 
you are so handsome — so vair, vair handsome. 
But wait. I will return in a lit’ while. Wait.” 
And she was of¥ before he could stop her. She 
was back again in a very few moments laden 
with packages of edibles from a neighboring 
delicatessen store. And then they ate the good 
things and drank of the coffee. This she made 
on a little spirit lamp, using a bowl for the steam- 
ing coffee. 

When the Lucullian feast was over she re- 
moved the things, went behind a screen, put on 
an evening waist and was ready for business. 

“Monsieur Jack,” she said, gayly, “you shall 
paint me. I shall pose. Do your best. I am 
ready,” and she sat back in a chair and looked 
like a Gallic Lady Vere de Vere. 

In twenty minutes she went over to his easel 


— 35 — 


and looked at his lines. She returned to her 
position without making a comment. In fifteen 
minutes more she looked again. A doubting 
look came into her eyes, but she said nothing. 
Again in ten minutes she scrutinized his canvas. 
This time she shook her head. 

“You cannot draw, monsieur. I am sorry, 
but you cannot draw, and you are so handsome, ” 
and she looked at him pityingly. He said not a 
word. He had no defense. There were his 
lines, and she knew. “Try something else, 
monsieur,” she said kindly as she went away. 

“Try something else.” 

* * * * 

“Monsieur — Monsieur Jack, I did not mean 
to wound you. I have returned to ask your 
pardon. Why don’t you answer?” and Celeste 
pushed her way into the dimly lighted studio. 
“You are angry with me. Monsieur Jack. Why 
do you not answer?” she asked, as she crossed 
over to the form in the dusk. 

She touched his hand and started back. She 
picked up a small phial she saw lying on the 
table. 

Then, with white face and a clutching at the 
heart, she passed out again. 

Jack Perry had tried something else. 


— 36 — 


TOM LIGHTLY TO THE FRONT. 



uT OUISE, how does it look? Is it worth 
the hundred.” 

“Oui, madame.” 

“Am I stunning, am I fit, will I do?” 

“Oui, oui, madame. You are exquiseet, 
charmant, you are all right, all right, I think 
you say. You are beau” 

“Don’t be a fool, Louise. You’re not my 
press-agent. Well, if these satin beauties don’t 
make more of a hit in the Park this afternoon 
than I ever made in my best silk tights at the 
Gaiety, I’ll eat no more broiled lobsters. There — 
tighten the band a little more, and fix the knees. 
Are you sure those stockings don’t wrinkle? 
Good. Now I’m off for my last bike ride before 
- 38 - 



“THERE, TIGHTEN THE BAND A LITTLE MORE, AND ARE YOU SURE 
THOSE STOCKINGS DON’T WRINKLE.” 












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I go to Europe. Good Heavens, i^ouise, don’t 
forget to order those steamer flowers from my 
many friends and charge them to Tom. And 
have a different card for every bunch. And tell 
Tom if he comes that I’ll be back in time to go 
to dinner with him at six. And don’t forget to 
tell him that these cost a hundred. So long. 
Look out for Fido. And remember the flowers. 
Ta-ta. ” 

vJ- 'SS* 

‘ ‘ Sa-ay, Louise, maybe I didn’t knock ’em 
cold in the Park. Gee! Those knickerbockers 
made the other girls weep. And I met John 
Bluffsby of the Frolic. He wants me to play 
principal boy in his new burlesque. I guess he 
didn’t know I could play a boy until he saw 
these Knicks. But he ’s a cheese. He owes me 
four weeks from last season. Well, I think 
everything is ready for my trip abroad. I hope 
the Town Fizz will devote as much attention to 
me as it did to that cheap soubrette, Lallie 
Loola. I guess I’ll lie down for a while. Call 

me when Tom comes.” 

* * * * 

“Wha — what’s this, Louise, what do I want 
of an ‘ extra ’ ? ” 

' ‘ Read this, madame. ” 

“More New York troops to the front. Im- 


— 41 — 


mediate marching orders received by the 
Thirty-ninth. Soldier boys leave for Manila 
tomorrow.” 

‘ ‘ Among those who received a hurry call to- 
day and who are already packing to go is 
Lieutenant Thomas Lightly, the well-known 
young man about-town, who had completed all 
arrangements to sail for Europe tomorrow.” 

“That’s enough, Louise. Bring me some 
brandy, quick. Now, let’s see. My name 's 
mud, isn’t it, Louise? Go and countermand the 
order for the flowers at once. Wait. Drop in 
on Grevy’s and say these clothes don’t fit, that I 
don’t want them, and to send for them tomor- 
row. Also call on Blulfsby and say I’ll be 
down to see him in the morning. And say, 
Louise, when you think of it swear for me in 
French and call the Filipinos names.” 

“Now bring me a cigarette.” 


— 42 — 


A LONG BRANCH ANGEL. 



“DY Jove! She was pretty, as she sat there 
with her legs crossed and one dainty foot 
peeping out from under her skirt in a tantalizing 
manner. Her clothes were Parisian. If this 
were a fashion article you would be told all 
about the pleats and insertions and things, but 
never mind the cut of her dress or the cost of 
her tip -tilted hat. There she sat. She had 
come from the Ocean House and dropped into 
the chair with the air of a woman who expected 
to meet somebody. 

Ever and anon she shaded her fine black eyes 
with her hand and gazed seaward with a search- 
ing glance — though there seemed to be no par- 
ticular reason for believing that a man would 


— 44 





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make a summary appearance from the damp 
East. 

I watched her, I admit it freely; she was well 
worth watching. She filled the eye and made 
pleasant thoughts chase themselves through a 
brain that all morning had fed on cocktails. 
Her svelte form — but let all that nonsense go. 

With worldly wise tuition and a knowledge 
based on experience, I settled the whole thing. 
She was there to keep an appointment with a 
man — perhaps dark and tall and handsome or 
blonde and dashing. There was no doubt of it. 
He was coming down here to meet this pretty 
sprite of a woman whose smile and gleaming 
teeth were ransom for a dozen kings. 

She grew nervous. 

Ah, additional proof that here was a rendez- 
vous — that she feared her dark or blonde-haired 
one would disappoint her. 

She arose from the chair, opened a silk sun- 
shade and began pacing up and down the beach. 
It was delicious and teasing to gaze at her as 
with nervous step and scanning eyes she waited 
— waited for some other man. 

I decided to strike. 

By Heaven, how I hated that other man! 
What right had he to the affection and love- 
glances of this v/oman — what right had he, I 


— AT — 


asked a dozen times as I fumed and fretted and 
viciously bit my cigar in two. 

I made up my mind that I wouldn’t stand it; 
why should I ? Was I not an American citizen, 
a young fellow whose blood was red and who 
had never been accused of being especially ugly? 

Then why should I allow another man to have 
what I might win with a bold stroke? 

I approached my divinity and with all the 
swagger grace I had acquired in the most exclu- 
sive Broadway circles, I raised my hat and said: 
“I beg pardon. Miss, but you seem to be wor- 
ried. Perhaps I can be of some service.” 

She didn’t wax wroth, as they have it in the 
novels. In fact, she actually parted those full 
ripe lips in a maddening smile and cooed in her 
most dulcet tones: “Thank you. It’s so very 
nice of you.” 

I almost swooned with joy. 

Then — -“You see, I am waiting here for some 
one and I’m afraid he has missed the boat.” 

Ah ! Then I was right. I would have 
strangled that some one had he come on the 
scene at that particular moment. 

I bowed again — still gracefully. I’m sure, as I 
had practised those tactics many times before 
the mirror. 

“May I offer my services?” (“as a knight” I 

- 48 - 


would have added had I not seen a strong line or 
two about the beautiful mouth.) 

She came toward me smiling. It was Heaven 
and she was the white angel. 

"Yes, you can do something for me,” she 
said. 

(How I longed to take her in my arms.) She 
continued: "Will you go to the pier and see if 
you can see my husband and tell him I am here ? 
You will know him at once for he has a long 

white beard, limps a little, and is very fat.” 

* * * * 

And people wonder why I don’t like Long 
Branch ! 


— 49 — 



THE EXPERIENCE OF ALGERNON 
DE WILT. 



FxperloiiGo 


TT was as hot as blazes on Broadway, and 
-*■ Algernon de Wilt sweltered in the stock 
broker’s office, where he lorded over a ticker 
and two office boys. His employer was aawy 
on a vacation. All the customers that bet 
against the Knockem & Co. ticker were away, 
too. But Algernon still lingered, and he swore. 
But it was so infernally hot that afternoon he 
really couldn’t be blamed. 

He picked up the New York “Herald "and 
his eye struck the personal column. He read 
this: 

STRIPED BATHING SUIT.— Will meet you 
at Manhattan Beach, Wednesday afternoon. I, too, 
will wear a striped bathing suit. — F. J. S. 

Algernon threw down the paper. He swore 
once more. Why in the deuce should he be 


— 52 — 














A 

i 




cooped up in a poky office with only two 
quarrelling, dirty - faced brats to keep him 
company? 

John Knockem had left him that morning with 
this admonition: “ De Wilt, I’m going up to 
the country today to see my wife and the kids. 
Take care of things, and don’t leave the office 
until I come back. We musn’t let Pinchem & 
Co., next door, get anything that’s going. So 
long. ” And Algernon had promised to stay in 
the office. 

He looked at the “Herald” again. “The 
office be damned,” said Algernon; and then he 
got his hat, went up to Thirty-fourth Street, 
rode over to Long Island City, and took a train 
for Manhattan Beach. 

* * * * 

‘ ‘ That’s her, ” said Algy, forgetting all about 
his Harvard English in his excitement. He 
looked like a barber’s pole; the bathing master 
had given him the suit he wanted and made him 
resemble a first-class zebra. 

The “her” he referred to was attired in a 
striped bathing suit; otherwise she looked sane 
and very stunning. 

He lost no time. 

“ I saw your personal in the ‘Herald’ today,” 


— 55 


said he, “and I just thought I’d come down and 
see what you looked like.” 

“Well, what do you think of me?” she 
answered, apparently not displeased that he 
should have spoken to her. For Algernon was 
a good-looking young cub. 

“You’re great! ” he answered enthusiastically, 
and he meant every word of it. 

Then they chatted some more. Algernon 
almost lost his head when she allowed him to 
take her out where it was rough and deep. 
They came ashore and dug into the sands and 
said all manner of silly things. At the end of 
ten minutes she jumped up. 

“You must go now,” she said, not without a 
tinge of regret in her tone. ‘ ‘ The other man 
in the striped bathing suit I expect every 
minute; so sorry.” 

And Algernon went up the beach and swore 
for the twentieth time that day. 

While he sat with his back ruminating 
whether he had better jump in and drown him- 
self or light a cigarette, something impelled 
him to look back to the spot where he had left 
her. 

The other and real man in the striped bathing 
suit was romping with her in the water. 

Algernon almost yelled in his astonishment. 

— 56 — 


He recognized the carefully trimmed beard of 

John Knockem. 

* * * * 

“I say, De Wilt,” said Mr. Knockem to 
Algernon a few mornings later, as he was going 
through his mail. ‘ ‘ I hope you haven’t neg- 
lected the office since I’ve been up to see my 
family? ” 

‘ ‘ I haven’t missed a trick, ” said Algernon. 
And he really spoke the truth. 


— 57 — 





WHY HELEN VAN BUSKIRK WENT 
ON THE STAGE. 



S she entered the offices of the theatrical 



firm of Partridge & Collier, everybody 
looked at her with ill-concealed interest, not un- 
mixed with admiration. Even the snub-nosed 
office-boy forgot to be impudent, and the type- 
writer stopped chewing gum as she glanced over 
the railing at the newcomer. 

She was undoubtedly well bred and not used 
to Broadway. That was as plain as the lustre of 
her fine black hair and the beautiful snowiness of 
her strong teeth as she smiled at the astonished 
boy when she handed him a card. 

‘ ‘ Please give this to the manager of the choir 
department, ” she said in a liquid voice that went 
clear through the smug-faced man with the seri- 
ous expression who sat in one of the visitor’s 


— 6o — 


chairs, and looked as if he might have been wait- 
ing for a position in some Shakesperian company. 
Then he straightened up, gazed hard at the lis- 
some form and rich coloring of her features, and 
remarked to a smooth-faced youth in the next 
chair: “By me buskin, lad, the girl would make 
a fine Parthenia.” To which the smooth-faced 
young man made no reply, looked wise, and 
wondered whether Glen McDonough or Frank 
Harvey had written ‘ ‘ Parthenia. ” 

The office boy took the card, passed through 
a door marked “private,” and went up to a desk 
where a good-looking young fellow was sitting. 
He was Frank Collier, the junior member of the 
firm, who attended to business while his partner 
played the races. 

“A lady out there wants to see the manager 
of the choir department, and here’s her card,” 
and he threw down the piece of pasteboard, 
which had already assumed a color nearly match- 
ing his own grimy hands. 

Frank Collier smiled as he looked at the card 
and read “Miss Van Buskirk, ” under which, in 
a feminine hand, was written, “Binghamton, 
N. Y.” 

‘ ‘ ‘ Manager of choir department. ’ I suppose 
she’s having fun with you, kid.” Then he smiled 
again. “But show her in.” 


— 6i 


In a moment he heard a frou-frou of skirts, 
sniffed the subtle fragrance of violet, and knew 
that an unusual someone had entered. 

He looked up, and mentally vowed he had 
never seen anything so nice and fresh and alto- 
gether un-New Yorky since he had left his own 
home up the State. 

What could she want in the office of Par- 
tridge & Collier, the most extensive purveyors 
of chorus girls and ballerinas in the United 
States ? 

With a pretty little bow as he placed a chair 
for her, she volunteered: “I saw your firm’s 
name in the city directory as musical agents, and 
I have come to get a position.” 

“Have you ever had any experience?” he 
asked, dropping into the conventional catechism. 

“Well,” she began diffidently, “I have sung 
for nearly a year in a church in Binghamton, but 
as the pay was so small I thought I’d come to 
New York and see how much better I could do.” 
Then as she saw the smile of amusement that 
played around his mouth, she flushed slightly, 
and the least possible shadow of displeasure ap- 
peared in her eyes. He noticed it. 

“Forgive me,” he said earnestly. Frank 
Collier had not allowed five years of contact 
with New York theatricals to dull his finer 


— 62 — 


perceptions. ‘ ‘ I did not mean to wound you. 
As a matter of fact, Miss Van Buskirk, the 
laugh is rather on me, for I supposed you 
were joking when the boy brought in word 
that you wanted to see the manager of our choir 
department. ” 

“But you are musical agents, aren’t you?” 
she asked, just the faint suspicion that she had 
placed herself in a ridiculous light dawning upon 
her. 

“Yes, we are musical agents,” he answered 
kindly, “but not the sort you want. We 
furnish singers and banjoists for music halls and 
clubs and all that sort of thing, you know.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, ” came from her pretty mouth in a sort 
of half-suppressed gasp. “Then you get en- 
gagements for stage singers and — actresses — ” 
the last word coming as if a great and unpleasant 
truth had been forced upon her. 

“ Yes, that’s it; stage singers and — actresses,” 
said the agent, with the same inflection she had 
used. Then he asked: “You are I should 
judge. Miss Van Buskirk, a stranger in the 
city?” 

For answer she inclined her head, and he 
could see that her eyes took on a troubled look. 

‘ ‘ I am sorry, ” he went on, ‘ ‘ that we can do 
nothing for you. In fact, I won’t even give you 

• — 63 — 


encouragement, as I understand that the choir 
lists are quite as full as our own. What is your 
repertoire ?” 

She seemed to be thankful for his interest. 

‘ ‘ Of course, ” she answered, ‘ ‘ I can sing 
ballads like ‘Jamie,’ although my church work 
has necessarily made me more proficient in 
sacred music. The Binghamton Star said that 
my singing of ‘Ave Maria’ showed I had the 
true devotional spirit. ” Then she remembered 
that he had smiled at her before. ‘ ‘ I suppose 
you’ll think this all very silly when I go, ” she 
went on with a little deprecatory gesture. 

“Not at all,” he assured her, “although I’ll 
admit that there is a strange sound about ‘ Ave 
Maria’ and ‘Jamie’ in an atmosphere that 
breathes only ‘ My Black ’Liza ’ and ‘ The 
Belle of Thompson Street’ Now, Miss Van 
Buskirk, if you’ll leave me your address I’ll 
keep it, and it’s barely possible that later on we 
may be able to do something for you,” 

“Then you expect to add a choir depart- 
ment?” she asked. 

“Oh, dear, no. But sometimes we may have 
a nice little part that a nice girl like you could 
sing and — ” 

“On the stage — oh, never!” she said in a 
tone of actual horror. ‘ ‘ I would have to lose 


— 64 — 


Really, I 


all hope before coming to that, 
would.” 

And he could tell that she meant every word 
of it. But she left her address, and after she had 
taken her departure, he looked out of the window 
at the lithe young form as it crossed the street. 

“Poor little devil,” said Frank Collier. “I 
hope she’ll be able to stick to ‘Jamie’ and 
‘ Ave Maria. 

* * * * 

Two weeks later Mr. Robert Fullerton, man- 
ager, came in to see Frank Collier. 

“Frank,” said Fullerton, “I want you to get 
hold of a young girl who is pretty and fresh and 
— well, you know; like Edna May, for instance. ” 

“Um — going to try to do the Lederer trick 
over again, are you ?” asked Collier. 

“None of your business, Frank,” said the 
other, good humoredly. Then, seriously again : 
“But suppose I did want an Edna May? Could 
you fix me out?” 

Collier thought for a moment. Then he 
struck his thigh a resounding slap. 

“ By jove. Bob, I have it. Just the girl. I’ll 

have an answer for you to-morrow. ” 

» «• * * 

When Robert Fullerton called the next day he 
was handed this note. 


“ Mr. Frank Collier: 

‘ ‘ My Dear Sir — It is very kind of you to re- 
member me, but I must decline such a chance as 
you proffer. I have not lost hope yet. 

‘ ‘ Sincerely yours, 

“Helen Van Buskirk.” 

“ She’s a damned little fool,” said Fullerton, 
when the circumstances had been explained to 
him. “ But, she’ll come around when you don’t 
need her.” 

‘ ‘ I hope to God she never will, ” was the fer- 
vent remark of the other. 

* * * * 

It was two months later. The boy handed 
Frank Collier a card. He started. 

‘ ‘ Show the lady in at once. ” 

Again the same frou-frou of skirts, the same 
indefinable something. This time he went for- 
ward to meet her with outstretched hands. 

How her face had changed! He could have 
cried out in sympathy. 

“You haven’t given up hope, have you?” and 
in his voice there was more concern than he 
thought he was capable of showing for any 
girl. 

“No, not given up, only wavering — and 
she sank into a chair. He could see that there 


— 66 — 



SHE HAD A STYLE ALL HER OWN— A CLEVERNESS CERTAINLY 
NOT A PRODUCT OF BINGHAMTON.” 



i 







were lines around her mouth that had not been 
there before, and her eyes — surely those eyes 
had been weeping. 

“Tell me — tell me what you have been do- 
ing,” he asked eagerly. 

‘ ‘ Oh, I hardly know myself, ” and she sighed 
as if there was nothing but weariness in the 
world. ‘ ‘ At first, after I left you, I was, oh, so 
hopeful. I went from place to place looking for 
a position. I did not expect much. I only 
wanted a chance to do something. For four 
weary weeks I rode from one end of the town to 
the other. My money gave out. Then I 
walked. Twice I was openly insulted — insulted 
by men who sang God’s own music in God’s own 
house. Oh, the shame of it.” She cried then 
softly as she thought of the shame, the humilia- 
tion. 

Frank Collier found himself clutching the arm 
of the chair convulsively. 

“ The hypocrites!” said he, hoarsely, “God!” 

She went on as if too tired to hear his words. 

“And now to-day, after six long weeks, after 
I have tried, and tried, oh, God knows how 
hard, I came to you because, because — I — am— 
hungry,” and the wail of utter helplessness in 
that young voice told how long she had waited 
before coming to him. 


- 09 - 


And before he could reach her side she had 
fainted. 

* * * * 

‘ ‘ I hope she doesn’t scare, ” said Fullerton to 
his friend Collier, as they sat in a box at the 
Gaiety. 

‘ ‘ I think she’ll pull through all right, ” said 
the other anxiously. ‘ ‘ She’s an artist to her 
finger tips, and not the silly kind to let the lights 
bother her.” 

“I told you she’d come back, Frank,” con- 
tinued Fullerton, “and I admire your taste, ’ 
this with a nudge. 

Collier’s face flushed. 

“Don’t talk that way. Bob, or, by God, 
friend, or no friend. I’ll lick you.” 

And Fullerton thoroughly understood. 

Helen Van Buskirk, billed as Marie Devoe, 
was a success; more, she was a triumph. Noth- 
ing like her had ever before been seen or 
heard in New York. She was dressed in short 
skirts, but there the resemblance to other music- 
hall singers ceased. She had a style all her own 
— a cleverness certainly not a product of Bing- 
hamton. But her voice — that captured the 
house. She sang mostly the songs of the day. 
Her faithful coach had seen to it that she should 
not soar above her audience in song or method 


— 70 — 


or dress. And so even after she had sung a gay 
chansonette, a rollicking vivandiere song, and a 
couple of the songs that the boys whistled in the 
gallery, the people wanted more. She came 
out and bowed and bowed and bowed again. 
But still another song was wanted. She walked 
to the footlights, her eyes sought another pair 
of eyes in the box, her hand beckoned to the 
leader to stop playing the chorus of the last song 
she had been singing, and she started to sing 
“Jamie.” And the whole house sat still and 
drank in those dear old familiar lines as she 
sang them without accompaniment, with tears in 
her eyes and tenderness in her voice. Then 
she disappeared for good to the plaudits of an 
enraptured house. 

As Fullerton passed out after her turn he re- 
marked “ She ’s fit, ” which with Fullerton meant 
a great deal. 

The two friends passed around to the stage 
door and were soon in front of Helen’s dressing- 
room, where she stood resplendent in the first 
excitement of her success. 

“Helen, dear, let me present my friend, Mr. 
Fullerton. Bob—” and this was said with the 
proud air of a prince before his princess, ‘ ‘ this 
is Miss Van Buskirk, who has promised to be- 
come Mrs. Collier.” 


71 — 


“Yes,” answered that lady, “Frank insists 
that I shall sing ‘Ave Maria’ and ‘Jamie’ for 
him always.” 

And the only thing Fullerton could think of 
was not fit for the occasion. It was: “Well, 
I’m damned.” 



— 72 — 


LILIES OF THE VALLEY. 



1 T was a pretty face. The hair was long, the 
mouth most sensitive and the eyes as soft as 
those of a fawn. The cheeks were perhaps a 
trifle too hollow, but that might have been due to 
a hurried application of make-up. Many a pair 
of male eyes during the closing chorus remained 
fixed on this slight girlish figure in a short dress 
and natty hat that seemed the embodiment of 
flippant gayety. With the rest of the company 
she went through the closing chorus, while her 
voice, sweet though somewhat weak, sang the 
last bars of the opera’s finale, ‘ ‘ All’s Well That 
Ends Well.” 

Then to the dressing-room and to reality. Un- 
der the little piece of glass that served as a mirror 


— 74 — 


lay an envelope addressed to Miss Belle Jackson. 
The girl picked up the envelope and broke it 
open with an indefinable fear at her heart. The 
note was short. It said simply that owing to 
some changes in the piece, Miss Jackson’s serv- 
ices would no longer be required, and further 
added that as she had drawn her salary in advance 
there was nothing more due her. The fingers 
crunched the paper convulsively, but there were 
no tears. There are times when nature does not 
allow even this feminine privilege. 

In a few moments the girl was dressed for the 
street. Only for a moment did she glance in the 
piece of glass. She was almost startled by the 
hopeless look in her eyes. Then she went out 
into the dimly-lighted passage that led to the 
street. Just before she got there, one of the 
boys from the front of the house met her with a 
beautiful bunch of lilies of the valley, 

“These are for you. Miss Jackson, ” said he, 
handing them to her. “They were left at the 
box office by a young fellow who looked like a 
swell. He said they were for the third girl in the 
first row, and I knew he meant you. ” Then, for 
the first time he noticed something strange in her 
face. “Are you sick. Miss Jackson?” he asked, 
with boyish kindness. 

She shook her head. 


— 75 — 


“No, John,” she answered. “Only, I have 
been discharged.” 

He understood her well. He had seen it often 
enough before. 

“I am so sorry; perhaps if you speak to the 
manager” — but he knew she understood how 
useless it would be, and when she said, ‘ ‘ Thank 
you, ” with that sweet, sad smile of hers, he could 
only look after her figure as it passed out of the 
door and say under his breath, ‘ ‘ It’s a dirty 
shame. ” 

Belle did not take a car for the very simple 
reason that she could not afford the luxury of a 
ride. She walked along in the cold December 
night in her faded little brown jacket and her 
poor, mended shoes, holding in her hopeless way 
the magnificent bunch of flowers that were fit for 
the boudoir of life’s most favored. Straight she 
walked towards the West side from Broadway, 
leaving behind its bright lights and gayety. 
Across Sixth, Seventh and Eighth avenues she 
went, not pausing for an instant until she reached 
the poor-looking block running from Ninth to 
Tenth avenues. Then she hesitated. 

“What shall I do?” she said, standing on the 
corner in the bleak air looking about her in a 
blind sort of way, as if seeking for some light. 
‘ ‘ I told Little Sis I should bring he** something 

— 76 — 


nice, and I have nothing but these, ” and she held 
the white flowers in front of her. Their incense 
almost made her sick. 

Then she felt an almost irresistible impulse to 
throw them on the ground and stamp on them as 
if they were something accursed. 

‘ ‘ Nothing but these, ” she said bitterly; ‘ ‘ and, 
great God, it’s bread she wants — bread! bread!” 
and the cry came as a requiem. But no one 
heard. 

Then once more, with clenched fists, almost 
breaking the stems of the delicate flowers, she 
walked down the block, finally halting in front 
of a great brick building that seemed as cold and 
cheerless as the December night itself. With a 
final effort she dragged herself up the steps and 
through the main hallway. At the top of the 
first steps she halted again. How could she go 
on? How could she smile and laugh and look 
happy for that other one, when she had nothing 
to offer — not even bread ? 

Then on, on, she went, through the dark halls 
up to the very top, finally pausing in front of a 
doorway. 

What was it that choked her throat and grasped 
her heart and almost made her stop breathing? 
She knocked at the door; first a weak, timid 
little knock, then a hard, frightened, sharp knock. 


— 77 


Still no reply. She took a key out of her pocket 
and unlocked the door, and, as she passed in, 
called out, “Little Sis! Little Sis! Didn’t you 
hear me knock? Do you feel worse to-night?” 
Then, as she thought of the flowers — “ Sis, dear, 
see what I have brought you.” The darkness 
and the quiet frightened her. 

“Little Sis! Little Sis! ” she cried louder and 
louder. “ Where are you girl, where are you?” 
She was sobbing now ; why, did she not know ? 
Blindly groping she went into the one small bed- 
room and tiptoed over to the bed. She Ayould 
not awaken the poor tired thing. Let her sleep. 

In the semi-darkness she could see the white 
face and beautiful hair against the pillow. One 
small, thin arm and wasted hand lay outside the 
coverlet. 

She caught up the hand and would have pressed 
it to her lips. But it was cold. 

Cold as the touch of the night. Cold in a way 
that sent the blood from her lips, made her 
breath stop. The other hand she placed lightly 
on the forehead of that poor tired face. 

Cold — oh, so cold! 

Reverently she put the hand she held back 
again upon the coverlet, and taking up the 
flowers she had dropped, placed them reverently 
on the bosom of the sleeping girl. 

- 78 - 


“See, Little Sis,” she whispered, so softly 
that only the angels heard. ' ‘ See, dear, what I 
have brought you. See, Little Sis, they are 
white, like you.” 

And then, in the still darkness of the room, 
she dropped to her knees and, burying her face 
in her hands, asked God to take her, too. 


— 79 — 




HOW SHE MARRIED WILLIE IN SPITE 
OF HIMSELF. 





Mow She 
Ajiarried 
in Spite 
Mimsey* 




u'PNON’T be a fool, Willie,” said Pearl Parker 
looking back from her mirror on the 
dressing-room wall in the Frivolity. This was 
a needless admonition on the part of Pearl, for 
Willie really couldn’t help being foolish; but 
then she always forgot. 

‘ ‘ See here, ” said Willie, showing his boyish 
anger in voice and manner. “ I’m devilish tired 
of being thrown aside like a glove when you’re 
out of sorts and can think of nothing for me to 
buy for you. Yes, I’m getting devilish tired of 
it,” he repeated, as she continued to put the 
finishing touches of red to her lips. Willie 
twisted his gloves around in his hand impatiently 


82 — 


as if they were something human and he was 
wreaking vengeance on them. 

After a tantalizing pause during which she 
calmly finished her make-up, Pearl turned 
around placidly and surveyed her companion 
with a critical eye. Not a single detail from 
his carefully ironed hair to his impeccable patent 
leathers, escaped her notice. 

“My dear Willie,” she said, in that studiously 
even tone which always angered him to despera- 
tion, ‘ ‘ if you think for one moment that the 
purchase of an occasional trinket gives you the 
privilege of being nasty, please undeceive your- 
self at once.” Then she got up and opened the 
door. “Run along now, Willie,” she con- 
tinued, in that clear, liquid voice of hers. 

‘ ‘ Run along home to mamma, now, there’s a 
dear little boy. I’ve got to be on the stage in 
ten minutes and I haven’t any time to bother 
with you. Run along now,” she continued, as 
with a gentle tap on the shoulder she made her 
invitation to depart still more convincing; “ run 
along now, and don’t you come back again 
until you’ve made up your mind to behave your- 
self. Ta-ta, ” and almost before Willie knew it 
the door was slammed in his face and he found 
himself in the dark passage outside. 

“Confound me for an ass,” said he, getting 

- 83 - 


at his true value in one jump. “She calls 
them trinkets, eh? Good Gawd, she thinks 
a T cart, an automobile and a Tiffany brooch 
are trinkets!” 

Then the ridiculous side of the situation ap- 
pealed even to his small thin mind. Being sent 
out of the room like a boy who had eaten his 
sister’s jam or had disgraced himself at the table 
was certainly not upholding the dignity of a 
young man who came of one of New York’s 
best families, had money to burn and was burn- 
ing it with a zeal worthy of a better cause. 

While he was standing there in the light of 
the sputtering gas jet a door on the other side 
of the passage opened and out popped the head 
of little Maesy Middleton. 

Hello, Willie,” called out the cheery Maesy 
to the dejected looking Willie. 

That worthy looked up and a new light came 
into his eye. It was the light of a new purpose, 
and through it all flashed the terrible, implacable 
anger of Willie Waddle. 

“Hello, Maesy,” said he presently. “Have 
you an engagement for supper to-night?” 

‘ ‘ Why, ” said she, in surprise, ‘ ‘ I thought 
that you and Pearl — ” 

“Oh, that’s all off,” said Willie, with an 
assumption of flippancy that he scarcely felt. 

- 84 - 


“Let’s go up to Martin’s after the show and 
have a bird and a bottle. ” 

“All right,” said Maesy, “I’ll go you,” 

And so it was settled. At 11:30 Willie and 
Maesy were comfortably seated at a table in 
Martin’s. Willie was unusually prodigal in his 
orders. It was his apparent intention to run the 
gamut of the bill of fare from soup to cheese and 
coffee without missing anything, and the assidu- 
ous attention he showed to the wine list be- 
trayed his desire to prove to Maesy what a big 
heart beat back of his dress shirt. 

‘ ‘ Suppose Pearl should come in?” said Maesy. 
You see, Maesy knew Pearl and wasn’t taking 
any too many chances. 

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Willie, waving his 
hand carelessly, as if such things were mere 
trifles to a man of his experience. ‘ ‘ I’ll fix that 
all right,” 

Then he ordered another bottle, which 
he proceeded to annihilate with the utmost 
sang froid. 

It would be positively silly for me to take up 
space in detailing their chatter for the following 
hour. As a rule, these little conversations do 
not approach anything more brilliant than a dis- 
cussion of Shanley’s style of broiling steaks, the 
costumes of the new Gaiety prima donna, and 

- 85 - 


the extortionate charges of cabmen who drive 
through the Park. 

At twelve-thirty, or to be more exact, at 
twelve-twenty-two, Willie showed a decided in- 
clination to distribute his anatomy impartially 
between the floor and the chair. Maesy, on the 
other hand, was as fresh as a lark on a May 
morning. A few glasses more or less to Maesy 
made little or no difference; as she once re- 
marked in a candid discussion of her own im- 
bibing abilities: “Me? Oh, I could swim in it 
and always keep my head on top. ” 

While sipping one of the numerous glasses 
that passed his lips that night, a brilliant idea 
struck Willie. He put down the glass again so 
hard that the wine was spilled over the linen, 
and looking across at Maesy, blurted out, ‘ ‘ Say, 
you’re a devilish nice girl, Maesy. I like you 
better than I like Pearl Parker. How would it 
strike you if I asked you to become Mrs. 
Waddle?” 

‘ ‘ Oh, I say, Willie, don’t be a fool, ” said the 
girl, who was getting tired and wanted to go 
home now. This was the second time that 
Willie had been called a fool that night. It was 
a little too much for his dignity. He would as- 
sert himself. ‘ ‘ See here, Maesy, ” said he, 
“ you think I’m joking, don’t you. I’ll tell you 


— 86 — 




what I’ll do. We’ll go right down to the Little 
Church Around the Corner and be married, and 
in the morning we’ll go round to Pearl and get 
her congratulations. ” 

“Not on your life,” said Maesy. 

Then her eyes caught sight of Pearl Parker 
sitting in the rear of the restaurant. As if a 
great strong light shone upon Maesy, she patted 
Willie’s big fat hand, and said reassuringly: 
“You flatter me, my dear boy, but this is so 
sudden. Give me five minutes to think about 
it.” Then getting up from the table she ex- 
cused herself, and going to the staircase 
beckoned to Pearl who had been taking in the 
scene with greedy eyes. In another moment 
the two girls were deep in an earnest conversa- 
tion that finally seemed to end to the satisfac- 
tion of both. 

In about ten minutes a waiter went up to 
Willie, saying, ‘ ‘ Mr. Waddle, someone outside 
in a cab says she is waiting for you.” 

Willie, not too sure of his feet, paid his bill 
and went out to the cab standing in front of 
Martin’s. As he opened the door a gloved 
hand pulled him in gently and whispered in his 
ear: “All right, Willie, dear; I have given the 
driver instructions and we’ll be married right 
away.” All of which didn’t seem to surprise 

_ 89 - 


Willie in the least, and he got in quite as con- 
tentedly as if he were going for a drive up 
Riverside. 

* * * * 

There was great excitement the next night 
behind the scenes at the Frivolity. 

Pearl Parker was not on hand, and her under- 
study, Maesy Middleton, would have to take her • 
part. Maesy’s chum, Clara Coldwater, was in 
Maesy ’s room congratulating her on the good 
fortune that gave her a chance to play the prin- 
cipal part in “A Night’s Revel.” 

‘ ‘ I wonder what in the world has become of 
Pearl,” said Clara. 

“Clara,” said Maesy, going up to her mys- 
teriously, “can you keep a secret?” 

“Just as well as you can,” chirped Clara 
laughingly. 

“Then let me tell you,” said Maesy. “ I am 
going to play Dolly Dimple to-night by special 
arrangement with Pearl Parker,” and she winked 
her eye audaciously. 

“What!” gasped Clara. “What do you 
mean?” 

‘ ‘ Only this, ” said Maesy in a satisfied tone. 

“I wanted to play Dolly Dimple. You know 
that. Pearl wanted to marry Willie Waddle. 

You know that, too. Well, Willie proposed to 


— 90 — 


me last night. Pearl was there staring her eyes 
out and Willie was too silly to see anything or 
anybody. We made a bargain by which she 
was to take my place and go to the Little 
Church Around the Corner, while I was to play 
Dolly Dimple. And there you are, ” she ended 
triumphantly, breaking merrily into a snatch of 
her opening song. 

‘ ‘ But didn’t Willie catch on to the deception, ” 
asked Clara. 

‘ ‘ Oh, yes, ” answered the other, ‘ ‘ of course 
he did, but only when it was too late. I bade 
Mr. and Mrs. Waddle good-bye on the Britannia 
this morning and they both seemed to be happy, 
and, as I’m tickled to death, there’s no one to 
kick. ” 

"First act,” yelled the call boy outside the 
door. 

And, in five minutes more, Maesy Middleton 
was making the hit of her life. 






WHEN BOBBIE BUYS THE RINGS. 



T>OBBIE VAN CAMPEN was in the seventh 
heaven of delight. He was walking down 
Broadway with Cora Flutter of the C^asino — an 
honor he had dreamed of from his very first 
college days. 

‘ ‘ I say, Cora, ” said Bobbie as a great thought 
imbedded itself in his diminutive brain, “let’s 
walk over on Fifth Avenue and pass the Calu- 
met Club. I want the fellers to see us.” You 
see, Bobbie was rather callow and very proud of 
certain things. 

‘ ‘ All right, Bobbie, ” said Cora. ‘ ‘ But first 
I’ve got to drop into Nathan’s and price a ring 
I saw there yesterday. Come along” — and 


— 94 — 


Bobbie was dragged to a doom that cost him 
exactly fifty dollars. Then they started up 
Fifth Avenue and Bobbie felt that at last he was 
to get some value for his little expenditure. 
Unfortunately, just before they reached the 
Calumet Club, one of the members had in a 
whisper invited everyone to have a drink and 
nine men broke their legs in getting into the 
cafe, leaving the windows merely aching voids. 
Bobbie was mad. Had he spent fifty dollars 
without the glory of showing Cora to the un- 
serried ranks of the Calumet? 

“What’s the matter, Bobbie?” asked Cora 
with a solicitous smile. “Does your shoe 
pinch?” It did, but Bobbie v/ouldn’t say what 
kind of a shoe it was. 

‘ ‘ Confound it to the dickens and the deuce, ” 
he said, with a bloodthirsty oath only possible 
with a Calumet man. ‘ ‘ I wish we could meet 
some one I know and — ” 

Then he did something remarkable. He 
made a flying leap for the opposite side of the 
street, flew past a policeman who didn’t know 
whether to arrest him or not, and was half way 
down the block towards Fourth Avenue before a 
tall, swinging brunette whom he had seen and 
who had seen him from a distance, reached the 
corner where Cora was standing. The tall 


/ — 93 


i 

j 


brunette looked mad. Cora looked astonished. 
Then the brunette broke into a merry laugh. 

“ I wouldn’t wait for Mr. Van Campen,” said 
she confidently to Cora. “V/e’re engaged to 
be married but I shall send back his ring to- 
morrow, ” and she looked as if she meant it. 

“How strange,” said Cora pleasantly. “Bob- 
bie has just bought me a ring. But I’m going 
to keep mine.” 

And Cora meant it too. 

And now the Calumet chappies are wondering 
why Bobbie Van Campen looks so disconsolate 
and why he keeps away from Broadway and 
never looks a jewelry store in the face. 

And Cora says nothing; but she likes that 
ring better than ever. 



-96- 


IN WHICH GARTERS ARE TRUMPS. 



T T was 7. 30, and Millie was ready for the first 
act — something that would have prostrated 
the stage manager had he known. Tillie was 
working away with the rouge. She was placid. 

Millie was talkative. She always felt that 
way after a late lunch up at Claremont. 
George was a prodigious buyer of old labels. 

“Tillie,” said she, just to hear herself talk, 

‘ ‘ I hear that you have been shocking the town 
by your actions with young Jack Gunter. 
Shock ’em again, say I.” Millie was no 
preacher. 

Tillie stopped rouging long enough to reply: 
“Funny, isn’t it, that Jack is almost the only 
- 98 - 


man who has taken me out a dozen times with- 
out even kissing me ?” 

Millie sniffed. ‘ ‘ Go tell that to your grand- 
mother," said she pleasantly. “Any girl who 
could refuse to let Handsome Jack kiss her is 
either an icicle or a fool. You’re neither.” 

Tillie smiled. “Thanks, Millie; listen. Jack 
took me home in a cab the other night. We 
had been up to Shanley’s, and Jack was feeling 
— well, you know how good wine affects men. 
He tried to kiss me. I told him not to be 
foolish.” She smiled. 

‘ ‘ I hadn’t kept him off a month for nothing, you 
know. He made all kinds of silly — and bold — 
breaks. In fact, if it had been three years earlier 
I would say he was insulting. The next day he 
called and asked if he had made a fool of him- 
self. I said he had and he tried to look sorry. 
Then he took from his pockets a pair of ” 

“Um,” said Millie defiantly. “Men always 
think they can win a woman with a sickly pair 
of gloves.” 

Tillie went on: “I was about to say some- 
thing about a pair of beautiful diamond studded 
garters. He said they were mine if — well, 
Millie, you know the old condition.” 

“And of course you allowed him to put them 


on. 


iL.cfC. 


“Not much, I didn’t,” said Tillie. “I 
slapped his face and he left me all broken up. ” 

“I take it all back. Til. You are a fool. 
Now you’ve lost the best looking- man in town 
and — ” 

“ Just a moment, dear girl. The same day a 
messenger came with the garters and there were 
no conditions.” 

“Let’s see them, Tillie.” Millie was inter- 
ested now. She liked gewgaws. 

“I sent them back by the same boy,” said 
Tillie complacently. 

Millie gasped. 

“I also,” continued Tillie, “sent a long 
letter — carefully punctuated with blotches that 
looked like tears — saying that I saw no excuse 
for the liberty he had taken ” 

‘ ‘ Tillie, I repeat that you are a fool, ” chirped 
Millie. The fact was she was thoroughly dis- 
gusted with Tillie. 

“And added further,” went on the other, 
“that the man who could present me with 
garters would first have to win that right by 
making me Mrs. — well, say Mrs. Gunter.” 

“What!” gasped Millie again. “You asked 
him to marry you?” 

“ I say, Millie, that’s not really a nice way to 
put it. However, the point is that Jack — ” 


— lOO 


“ Asked you to marry him, eh?” 

“ Well, this ring isn’t quite as showy as a pair 
of garters, but it tells a story." And she 
smiled. 

“ But say. Til,” and Millie burst into an un- 
controllable fit of laughter. "You say Jack 
never kissed you in a cab. What if he hears 
about your affair with Dick ? Gee, but that was 
a torrid one. Not even a kiss” — and she ex- 
ploded again. 

Tillie looked serious. Then she said: "I 
truly love Jack. Dick is in Nevada for good. 
I’m sure, and you’re my friend. Now, how 
could Jack find out?” — and there was somewhat 
of entreaty in her pretty voice. 

Millie jumped down and went over to Tillie. 
" He couldn’t,” she said in a voice that was 
sincere. 

Then she looked into the eyes of Tillie and 
repeated with warmth: "Not on your life!” 



— 101 — 



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WHEN A YOUNG MAN’S VIRTUOUS. 


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"^^OUNG Ponsonby de Trow was in a quan 
-*■ dary. He had just received at his club, a 
telegram, which ran as follows: 

“Dear Ponsy: 

“Must see you at once. Urgent. Do not 
fail me. Am waiting. F. S.” 

“Why in the devil should Frankie Stevens 
want to see me so badly?” That was the quan- 
dary. But he went. 

In fifteen minutes more he found himself 
sitting in the well-ordered establishment of Mrs. 
Stevens in a pretty apartment house near 
Central Park. Frankie Stevens, tall, blonde 
and dashing, walked out of her pretty boudoir 
to greet him. 


— 104 — 


“So good of you to come, Ponsonby,” said 
Mrs. Stevens, with a little electric smile. 

She went over and sat down beside the young 
man and began flecking imaginary specks off his 
well-brushed frock. 

“Well, Frankie,” said the young man, not 
without some misgiving, “what can I do for 
you?” His tone was not too cordial, albeit 
there was a note of fear in it. 

“Come, come, Ponsy,” said she, slightly 
querulous, “do thaw out; do be a sport; do 
stop acting as if I were something to be afraid 
of. I met at the theatre last night old Colonel 
Knockabout — you know, the old fool who wears 
a monocle when he isn’t too drunk to keep it in 
place. We were chatting last night, and I hap- 
pened to make the remark that I wanted five 
hundred dollars to pay for a little trip to Europe. 
Then, amongst other things, we began talking 
of you. I told him I thought you cared quite a 
little for me” — here she got a bit closer — “and 
the Colonel said you didn’t care for any girl, 
that you were entirely too goody goody, and he 
bet me five hundred dollars that I couldn’t in- 
duce you to sail for Europe on the same boat 
with me. Now, Ponsy, I do want to go to Paris 
so much, and I haven’t the money, and I can’t 
get it, unless — well, you know what the Col- 


— 105 — 


onel’s bet was.” Then she got up, stood in 
front of him with lowered lids, her full, rich lips 
parted and every line of her sinuous figure 
brought out in full relief through the folds of her 
gown. 

Ponsonby appeared to be worried; in fact, he 
was. This was the first time in six months he 
had allowed to himself to see the fascinating 
Frankie Stevens. He was an easy-going, good- 
natured youth, with not too much brains, but 
with a fine, healthy regard for the precept his 
father had laid out for him when he left him at 
twenty-one with lots of money and no encum- 
brances. The old man had said: “Ponsonby, 
I won’t lecture you, but never be a vulgarian 
and never consort with one. Remember that 
your mother was gentle and that your father 
tried to be a gentleman. God bless you, my 
boy;” and then he died. 

Ponsonby remembered all this as he looked 
into those eyes, that seemed to burn clear 
through his well-fitting vest. ‘ ‘ Don’t be a 
vulgarian and never consort with one.” Yes, 
she was pretty, but there certainly was nothing 
gentle about her. She had a bold, pretty face, 
and no redeeming softness of manner. 

With a greater effort than he cared to make 
obvious, Ponsonby arose. She pounced upon 


— io6 — 



“I SAY YOU SHALL, YOU SHALL,” SAID SHE. PASSIONATELY. 



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him in a moment, as if afraid her spell was 
broken. 

‘ ‘ Come, come, Ponsy, dear, " she said as 
she wound her arms around his neck. 

‘ ‘ Surely a trip to Europe is not such a 
terrible thing, and as for me — well, I am not 
so awfully bad.” 

Ponsonby was growing weaker and he 
knew it. 

‘ ‘ For God’s sake, let me go, I beg of you. 
Why do you send for me of all others ? There 
are fifty men ” 

But she stopped his words with a kiss. ‘ ‘ I 
say you shall, you shall, ” said she passionately. 

‘ ‘ I will not miss my trip, and besides, ” and here 
her arms again entwined the now broken reed — 
‘ ‘ besides, dear, I love you. ” 

And Ponsonby believed her; and so, as he 
bade her good-bye at the door he made a 
promise. He assured her that Colonel Knock- 
about would lose his wager, and that she should 
go to Europe. 

The next morning Ponsonby de Trow sat at 
the writing desk of his club. After writing and 
tearing up a half a dozen notes he finally settled 
on the following; 

“ My Dear Miss Stevens: 

“I promised before leaving yesterday that 


— 109 


you should have that trip to Europe. So you 
shall Inclosed please find my check for five 
hundred dollars. 

“With the sincere wish for your happiness, 
allow me to wish you ‘bon voyage.’ 

‘ ‘ Sincerely yours, 

“Ponsonby de Trow.” 

And the Herald two days afterwards an- 
nounced amongst those who sailed for Europe 
were “ Miss F. Stevens and maid.” 


— no — 


“AS HANDSOME AS A GOD.” 



T^ROWSILY the snowflakes were hovering in 
the Broadway air, as if loth to come down 
and meet the fate of countless other thousands 
that had been ruthlessly trampled underfoot and 
turned into little ridges and furrows of brownish 
mud. Snow stands but little chance of remain- 
ing chaste on Broadway. The theatres were 
just pouring out their crowds to the sidewalks, 
and from the lips of the call-porters in front of 
the houses came forth staccato yells for the num- 
bers of carriages that lined the blocks and 
stretched around the corners to the side streets. 
The crowds poured east and west and north and 
south. Some of them stopped the cable cars, 
and squeezed and jostled and stood any amount 


— II2 — 


of inconvenience in order to get out of the mud 
and cold of the night. In front of the Empire 
Theatre two young women and a man, who had 
been to see John Drew, got into a cab. 

"Rector’s” called out the man. In three 
minutes more the trio were passing through the 
doors of Broadway’s supper resort. The man 
and his companions seemed to know a great 
many of the people at the tables, as they bowed 
right and left on entering. 

‘ ‘ General, who is that fine looking fellow you 
bowed to near the door — the one with black hair 
and pale face ?” asked the blonde girl of her male 
companion. 

She addressed General Joseph Alder — general 
by appointment to the staff of Governor Ogilvie 
and a jolly fellow and high-liver. The quiet, 
pretty little woman with the soft eyes and gentle 
manner was his wife, nee Daisy Barrow, one of 
the daintiest ingenues the American stage has 
known and the only woman to whom the gallant 
general had ever bowed the knee. The blonde 
inquirer was Mrs. Alder’s friend, Elizabeth 
Ryder, a new stage celebrity and a woman who 
seemed destined to take high rank as an emo- 
tional actress. 

The General was amused. He showed it. 
He laughed. 


‘ ‘ My dear Elizabeth, ” said he, ‘ ‘ It’s queer 
that of all men on earth, Jack Barnes should be 
the one for you to select as the object of your 
flattering attention. Why, he hates you now 
without knowing it — just because you’re a 
woman. He has the air of a prince and the 
heart of a mummy.” 

“Jack Barnes!” said Elizabeth Ryder, mus- 
ingly, as she looked towards the door. “ Isn’t 
he the fellow who played on the Yale ’95 foot- 
ball team?” 

“The very same,” said the General, scanning 
the menu card with the air of a gourmet. 

‘ ‘ And they say he’s as handsome as a God, ” 
said Mrs. Alder, “but I don’t think he’s as 
handsome as my Joe,” and she glanced admir- 
ingly at her distinguished-looking husband. 

Elizabeth gazed long and earnestly at the 
mirrored reflection of the splendidly poised head 
of Jack Barnes. He caught her glance and his 
eyes met hers in a complaisant manner that 
rather annoyed her. 

“So he’s a woman-hater!” said Elizabeth 
carelessly to the General, who, in his contem- 
plation of the oysters before him, had forgotten 
there was such a man as Jack Barnes. “Gen- 
eral, I want to meet this awful ogre, this heart- 
less wretch. Bring him over and introduce him. ” 


“Devil take the fellow,” said the General 
under his breath. But he went over just the 
same, and in a moment more Jack was on his 
way to join the little party. 

Heavens, he was handsome! But there was 
rugged strength, too, in his frame and classic 
features. When he was at school his playmates 
tried to nickname him ‘ ‘ pretty boy, ” but he 
showed such aptitude with his fists that they didn’t 
try it after the fisrt time. What Elizabeth Ryder 
saw was a tall, broad-shouldered fellow of about 
twenty-eight, with a head that might have been 
chiseled from marble, nose almost as delicate as 
a woman s, and black hair brushed back from a 
high forehead. He saw in Miss Ryder an 
exceedingly promising actress whose name had 
figured prominently in the dramatic columns of 
the papers of late. She looked clever, albeit she 
was handsome without much winsomeness, as 
became a woman who played Camille so well that 
the critics raved about her passion and strength. 

‘ ‘ They tell me, Mr. Barnes, ” said she, with a 
half-suppressed smile, ‘ ‘ that you are a woman- 
hater. ” 

“Believe me. Miss Ryder,” said he in his fine 
deep voice that had been the envy of the other 
members of the Yale Glee Club, “ I aspire to no 
distinction in my opinion of women. I think they 


are necessary and altogether charming. But — 
they are not for me. ” 

The General and his wife were discussing John 
Drew between bites, and made up their minds 
to let the two younger folk talk to their hearts’ 
content. 

“I’m afraid, Mr. Barnes, that you have not 
met the right kind of women. They have either 
been self-assertive and impossible——” 

‘ ‘Ah, but haven’t I said that they are all charm- 
ing?” he asked in an injured tone 

“Or else,” she went on, not heeding his inter- 
ruption, “they have been like Isabelle Irving in 
‘The Tyranny of Tears’ — all grimaces and low 
suspicions and a woman who hasn’t even back- 
bone enough to be a vixen, ’’and Elizabeth Ryder’s 
eyes sparkled and the color came into her cheeks 
with the animation of her statement. 

“Bravo!” said Jack Barnes. “You look 
decidedly fetching when you talk that way. 
But, really, you make much out of nothing. 
Why should the fact that I care nothing for 
women serve to disturb anything or anybody?” 
and he looked amused. 

‘ ‘ Because I don’t believe anything of the kind, ” 
said she, mockingly. ‘ ‘ I don’t believe there is 
a man on earth whom I or any other woman 
couldn’t subdue and ” 


— ii6 — 


‘ ‘Ah, a challenge ! ” he called out. ‘ ‘ I accept, ” 
and he smiled in a way that showed his large 
white teeth. 

“And I shall be referee,” said the General, 
who had caught the last words. 

“And Joe, dear,” said Mrs. Alder, “if you’ll 
give me the wing. I’ll bet you that Elizabeth wins 
in a walk.” 

* » * * 

Elizabeth Ryder sat in her apartments in the 
Marlborough, gazing anxiously at the little clock 
on the mantel. She was decidedly nice to look 
upon. She was attired in a becomingly pretty 
gown and her hair, naturally rebellious, was put 
back from her white forehead. The neck of her 
dress was low, disclosing the beautiful white 
gleam of her flesh. 

She glanced at the clock again for at least the 
tenth time. ‘ ‘ How positively silly, ” she said 
with a half contemptuous curl of the lip; “I am 
as impatient as a school-girl. But he’ll come, of 

course ” and she gazed at her own image in 

the pier glass not without some degree of 
obvious satisfaction. 

There was a knock at the door. A card for 
Miss Ryder. Would she see the gentleman? 

“Yes; show Mr. Barnes up.” 

As she waited for his arrival she could feel the 


warm blood stealing up into her cheeks, rouging 
them with a glorious red. Again there was a 
knock, and Jack Barnes entered in evening dress. 
She met him graciously with outstretched hands 
and lips that parted with a captivating smile. 

‘ ‘ I thought you would come, ” she said, taking 
his hat and putting him at his ease. 

knew \ would,” he said. “Your note 
was not an invitation; it was a command.” And 
he looked admiringly into the face of Elizabeth, 
who, to save her soul, could not help blushing 
again. She felt positively ashamed of this dis- 
play of weakness. 

“And so. Jack Barnes,” she began, as they sat 
down beside each other, ‘ ‘ you have really, really, 
come. It was nice of you and I don't mind say- 
ing that I’m pleased.” 

“Your candor is much more pleasing than any 
attempt at being unduly shy, ” said he, laughing. 
“Yes, I’ve come. But please don’t think that I 
have completely capitulated. ” 

“And pray. Sir Knight, I don’t see that any- 
one has tried to storm your fortress — as yet.” 
And she looked teasingly at him. The last two 
words were uttered in an apparently careless 
manner. Just why it was necessary for her to 
rest her hand lightly on his arm at the same 
time even she could hardly have explained. 


“ Do you know,” said he, “I have the strang- 
est feeling toward you. You’re bright, exceed- 
ingly pretty, young, and I have no doubt fascinat- 
ing, and yet I find myself at times trying to con- 
quer an aversion to you. It’s really inexplicable 
to me.” And he looked her full in the eyes as if 
endeavoring to find some solution. 

“Well, sir, you, too, are candid,” said she, 
smiling. ‘ ‘ But I have thrown down the gauntlet 
to you and you simply must like me. I owe it 
to my sex and — well, I want you to like me, any- 
way, ” and as she said it she moved closer towards 
him. The incense of violet rose to his nostrils 
and made him half-close his eyes in a dreamy 
sort of way. “Come, tell me, ’’said she, putting 
her arm ever so lightly on his shoulder, ‘ ‘ haven’t 
you the slightest curiosity about me ? Don’t you 
want to know who I am, and where I came from, 
and all that sort of thing?” and she looked quiz- 
zically at Jack. 

“Well, now, candidly, I am a bit curious,” 
said he, ‘ ‘ but I really haven’t got the right to 
ask you these things,” and he found himself hold- 
ing one of her white taoering hands in his great 
large ones. 

“ But I want to give you the right” said she, 
insinuatingly, and giving him, oh, such a light 
pressure of the hand. ‘ ‘ Of course, you know 


— 119 — 


that I’ve been on the stage only about a year. I 
came from New Haven, where I took part in a 
lot of amateur theatricals and my manager saw 
me first, I was a wild, untamed sort of a crea- 
ture, and my folks were never able to do anything 
with me. Of course, I am not boasting,” she 
said with a pretty little deprecatory gesture ; ‘ ‘I’m 
simply telling you the truth. When I was in 
New Haven I used to get into all sorts of scrapes. 
Why, do you know, I had so many admirers at 
Yale that they became a nuisance. Oh, by the 
way, I used to know a foolish chap down there 
of the name of Barnes — let me see — seems to me 
his name was ” 

Jack Barnes gasped for a moment and clenched 
his hands. Then he questioned eagerly: “Was 
it Lawrence Barnes, a tall , handsome young boy 
with light wavy hair and the gentle eyes of a 
woman ?” 

“Yes, I think his name was Lawrence,” said 
she, ‘ ‘ but I don’t know that he was so handsome. 
He was a foolish cub. I let him think that I was 
madly in love with him,” she went on with a tri- 
umphant air, “and he was expelled from college 
for ” 

Jack Barnes pushed her roughly from him, 
and jumped up with a tremendous oath. 

“You murderous hussy,” he hissed, as the 


120 


woman drew back in affright at his awful anger. 
“That boy, God rest him, was a good son until 
he met you. He was my brother — my little 
golden-haired brother that I looked out for until 
he left us and went to college and got into your 
infernal clutches. ” He grabbed his hat and coat 
and made towards the door, but before reaching 
it he turned around and glared at her fiercely. 

‘ ‘ It may be an immense gratification to your 
pure white soul,” he said with a deep note of 
passion in his voice, “to know that Lawrence 
Barnes killed himself in disgrace when he was 
expelled from college. When you go to bed to- 
night kneel down and thank God you are a 
woman — and still live. ” 

Then as he passed out of the door and saw 
those wickedly brilliant eyes gazing at him, he 
lost control of himself again, and, clinching his 
fist, he cried, as if in answer to her taunting 

looks: “Damn you, damn you, damn you!" 

* * » * 

‘ ‘ Hattie, ” said Elizabeth Ryder to her maid, 

‘ ‘ bring me a brandy and soda. I’ve just had a 
little argument with a gentleman whose manners 
I don’t like.” 


I2I 




“THE MOON AND AN AUTOMOBILE. 





/^ERTAINLY it was the moon. It was full 
that night. It might have been silly of the 
moon, but it was true, nevertheless. Arthur 
Chamberlain and Carrie Belmont, seated in a box 
at the Froufrou Theatre, didn’t know this, and 
so thereby hangs a tale. 

Arthur was a foolish married man. All his 
friends knew that. He proved it this night by 
taking to the theatre a girl whom he had known 
very well before he married little Dollie Blake, 
of the Froufrou. He told his wife he was going 
to Philadelphia. 

“Arthur,” said Carrie, “this is dead slow. 
The show here isn’t anything like it was when 


124 — 


Dolly and I were in the company, eh?” and Arthur 
with a sigh acknowledged that it wasn’t. 

It certainly was deadly dull and they moped 
in their box like a couple of prisoners in the dock. 
The antics of the comedian only made them 
sadder. 

‘ ‘ Oh, this is worse than a Salvation Army 
meeting,” said Arthur, and then, in desperation, 
he added: “Let’s take an automobile ride through 
Central Park,” 

Carrie liked the idea. Out on Herald Square 
they found an automobile and in a very few min- 
utes were whirling along Seventh avenue. You 
see, Arthur was pretty much of a fool, but he 
had a little sense, and that little told him that a 
trip with Carrie up blazing Broadway might lead 
to detection. 

Into Central Park they drove. Arthur grew 
affectionate. Carrie, who liked Dollie well enough, 
was willing to drink Arthur’s wine and ride in 
his cabs, but she drew the line at downright 
Avarmth. 

“ Don’t be a fool if you can help it, Arthur,” 
said she. Carrie wasn’t deceiving Arthur as to 
her opinion of his intellect. “Just behave your- 
self; take me up to the Casino and place a small 
bottle in front of me,” and she disengaged his 
arm from around her thin waist for the tenth time. 


— 125 — 


They rolled up to the Casino. The aforesaid 
moon helped the Casino lights to make things 
cheery and dangerous. The driverwas just about 
to turn in at the Casino, when from another direc- 
tion came a hansom cab containing a youngish- 
looking woman and an elderly companion. 
Arthur saw them coming. He yelled to the 
driver: “Turn her on and get out of here as 
fast as you can. Sneak! Git! ” 

But as he said it he felt that a pair of keen 
eyes were glued upon him. This driver, who 
was a nervous man, threw back the throttle full 
vent, and in another moment had backed up, 
started off, and was speeding at a terrific rate 
down the hill. Past the trees they flew, and 
finally, when Carrie was almost in hysterics, and 
Arthur felt as if he would be blown out of his 
seat, Arthur leaned out and yelled up to the 
driver: “Confound you, man, we don’t want to 
keep on running away forever. Slow her up, 
slow her up!” 

The driver looked insultingly at Arthur. 

“Slow her up, be damned,” said he. “Can’t 
you see I’ve lost the grip of the thing? You’d 
better tell your lady friend to get ready to jump, ” 
and on they skimmed again. By this time they 
were well up to the West Drive of the Park, but 
even the hill that began at One hundred and sixth 


— 126 — 


street did not tire that whirring mass as it flew, 
flew, flew. It was Carrie’s turn now to cling to 
Arthur, although she thought afterwards it was 
a useless thing to do, as Arthur always found 
trouble in taking care of himself. 

At last they reached the circle near Eightieth 
street. Carrie, whose teeth were now chattering, 
sobbed; “Tell that fool to stop or I’ll jump. Let 
him run into the side somewhere. It won’t feel 
any worse to be killed in the bushes than in the 
middle of the road. ” Carrie was usually philo- 
sophical under the most unusual circumstances. 
She could see that the automobile was headed 
straight for a statue at the foot of the hill. The 
driver, however, did not wait for orders. He 
struck right out to be original, and in another 
moment that auto was doing its level best to 
climb a lusty tree at the side of the drive. Just 
before it struck, however, Arthur and Carrie 
made a jump for it and landed, not too grace- 
fully, in several places at once. They each knew 
they were not killed, by the noise the other made. 
They were not so very sure about the driver. To 
tell the truth, they didn’t care very much. Just 
as they were picking some earth and shrubbery 
out of their clothes, a hansom, which had been 
following them and which they had not seen, 
came up. The younger woman jumped out. 


— 127 — 


“Ah, Carrie, ” said Mrs. Chamberlain, sweetly, 

‘ ‘ I really didn’t know it was you, but I thought 
it looked like Arthur in the moonlight. How de 
do, dear? Arthur, I hope you will be well 
enough to take that train to Philadelphia. Come, ” 
said she to Carrie, ‘ ‘ mother and I will drive you 
home in our carriage and take care of you if you 
are hurt. Arthur, ” here she looked down at her 
chatelaine, “you have missed your train, but 
another starts in half an hour. You’ll find the 
cable cars quite comfortable. Good-bye, dear, 

and don’t forget to write. ” 

***** 

Arthur always blamed it on the moon, while 
Carrie said she knew it was the nervous driver. 
At any rate, although Dollie is very sweet to 
Carrie whenever she meets her on Broadway, 
Carrie notices that she never receives any more 
invitations to the Chamberlains’ Sunday nights. 



128 — 


IS BROADWAY WICKED? 



I^Y dear William: 

You want to know if Broadwy is wicked. 

It is, William; you can bet your boots it is; 
but so is your own little city of Watertown, 
N. Y. (your letter bears that address), if you 
really go out and hunt for wickedness with a 
dark lantern and a pretty good knowledge of 
men and women. 

William, I will not deceive you; Broadway is 
no place for a tall, thin young man, with curly 
hair, a foolish grin and money for bonfire pur- 
poses. * (I hope you haven’t the foolish grin, but 
I do hope you have the money. ) Broadway is 
a pretty lively imitation of a street where a great 
many people are thinking of tripping heels, 
various hues of pretty eyes and nothing serious, 


— 130 — 


while a few other ooor devils are trying to earn 
a living. 

» 

William, I once knew a man who was in the 
perfectly respectable business of selling leather 
down on Frankfort Street. He used to take the 
Wall Street ferry to his happy Brooklyn home 
every night, and he was deacon in a Heights 
church. A friend induced him to come up to 
Broadway and see the sights. Personally, I’ve 
never seen any sights that seemed capable of 
turning the head of a soft-boiled cabbage, but 
that man did. He fell a victim to what I shall 
call Broadway fever. Pretty soon he began to 
neglect his business, his wife found a single bed 
sufficient unto her needs, the Heights society 
began to talk and one church lost a deacon. 
That man is now a hanger-on of up-town bar- 
rooms. Incidentally, he shaved his luxurious 
blue-black whiskers some time ago. 

* * * * 

But, William, I also knew a man who came to 
Broadway from a near Jersey town. He was a 
shiftless sort of a chap, who had married because 
he had nothing else in particular to do. He 
spent most of his time in scribbling jingles on 
grocery-store paper. His folks told him to come 


to New York and live on himself for a while. 
He struck Broadway. That was five years ago. 
Today he is making ten thousand a year as a 
writer for the stage, and the folks have all come 
over from New Jersey to fill his comfortable flat. 
His wife has exchanged her sewing-machine for 
a cab, and all’s well. So, you see, dear William, 
that Broadway is just as you take it. The trouble 

is that foolish people take it in abnormal doses. 
* * * * 

I like Broadway. But, then, everything is a 
matter of taste. I once heard a beautiful and 
clever New York woman say she doted on bow- 
legged men because they looked strong and 
manly, and were so different from the weak, 
knock-kneed type. You see, she was observing; 
but to repeat — I like Broadway because — it’s 
Broadway. It is bright, and cheery, and pleas- 
ant; and its women are the handsomest in the 
world. And there, William, is the trouble. 
There are too many pretty women for the light- 
headed. The man to whom God has given vast 
appreciativeness, but very little ballast, is in- 
clined, after his first introduction to the street, 
to spend much of his time in buying boutonnieres 
and the balance of it in standing on the corners, 
meaning very little harm, but making himself 
ridiculous. For our New York women do not like 


the poseur, and Broadway is the quintessence, 

the spirit, the absinthe frappe of New York. 

* * * * 

Still, Broadway is wicked or it isn’t wicked, 
according to your sense of proportion. If you 
imagine that all those smiling lips you see are to 
be kissed for the asking, or if you can’t look full 
straight into a nice blue eye without quailing, 
don’t come to Broadway. It is full of delight for 
the student of the species, but it’s rather expensive 
and very disheartening to those who don’t know 
the difference between a good woman who 
smiles openly and a bad one who smirks secretly. 
Don’t come if you have no sense of that moral 
proportion which gives us the light to see that 
white is white and black no blacker than it can be. 

In fact, William, it’s really up to you. 


133 — 


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